


Academic Interest

by JaneDavitt



Category: Original Work
Genre: British Character, British Slang, First Time, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3789673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneDavitt/pseuds/JaneDavitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon and Malcom's first meeting doesn't go as planned, but once the air's cleared -- no, it still doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Academic Interest

Academic Interest

Simon took the wrong exit at the Tesco roundabout, distracted by the sight of a green Renault pulling into the supermarket carpark. Too far away for him to read the number plate, but the lurch in his gut told him it was Jaz’s. Three months since their breakup and he couldn’t get past the guy. 

He focused on the road instead of the barren wasteland of his love life, and cursed when he realized what he’d done. With a grim, gritted-teeth recklessness, instead of turning around, he headed into the maze of streets known officially as Eastbury Park Estate and unofficially as the Gateway to Hell. If he came out with four wheels, and his sanity, he’d count himself lucky, but it would shave a few minutes off the journey and he was already late.

He hated being late with a passion, but events had conspired against him. Okay, jerking off in the shower was his fault, but looked at one way, it’d been for business not pleasure. Kind of. Not that what he was about to do came under the heading of a job. Most definitely not. But going into it with the edge taken off was a good idea. Headed off any awkwardness.

Pulling up at a set of lights, he took another peek at the address he’d scrawled on a piece of paper, out of nerves more than a need to refresh his memory. 25 Manor Avenue. Right on the edge of his Staffordshire market town, the posh bit, where most houses had names not numbers, and were set so far back from the road they were invisible. He’d been there once with his dad as a kid, delivering fancy outdoor furniture that would get used for three weeks of the year if that, and cost an eye-watering amount.

The woman who’d graciously allowed them to carry a cast-iron table, six chairs, an umbrella, a swing under another umbrella and a chiminea along the side path and onto the vast patio had been a snooty madam. She’d nagged about how long they took to place the items where she wanted, complained about a footprint a twelve-year-old Simon had left in a flowerbed, and forgotten to utter a single word of thanks or appreciation for the Sunday delivery.

“Jenny Miller always did have a mouth like a cow’s arse,” his dad had said when Simon vented his feelings on the ride home. “I were at school with her, not that she’d admit it, and she might have married money, but she’s no lady.”

Simon was twice as old now, and any spark of revolutionary fervor had died back to comfortable apathy. There were rich, there were poor, and there were Premiership football players pulling down a hundred thousand quid a week for kicking a ball around. That was life. He was doing okay, living in a tiny flat over a row of shops, and within walking distance of his job, sales assistant at a menswear shop. Not much money, not many prospects, but better than the dole. Around here, with the mines, the potbanks, and the steel works all gone, he was lucky to be working.

And he had two days off a week, Sunday and Monday. He’d spent Sunday mooching around his flat, torrential April rain and a hangover keeping him inside. Today, a watery sun shone down on a damp world, clouds scudding overhead, blown by a brisk, chilly wind. Another day when staying inside was tempting, but he couldn’t let this guy down. 

Waiting for yet another light to change, he drummed his fingers against the wheel, avoiding eye contact with a bunch of kids bunking off school. They sauntered across the road, not hurrying even when the light turned green, spread out so he couldn’t ease forward. One of them, a ciggie hanging from his lip, slapped the hood of Simon’s car and grinned, pure menace and malevolence gleaming in his eyes. The cigarette stayed in place, defying the law of gravity.

Don’t show fear. Don’t provoke them. Don’t— Jesus, he was ten minutes late. Stung into action, he lowered the window, falling back into the dialect of his childhood, his threat delivered in a growl. “Gerrout of the fucking way, you fucking morons! Yeah, you heard me. Conner yer see the light’s green, tha daft buggers?”

With a sneer and a defiant yell, they scattered, and Simon accelerated away, legs shaky. Close call. A stone hit the back window, but bounced off without doing any damage. 

By the time he arrived, he’d recovered, but he was rank with sweat and his emotions were all over the place. Not good. Not good at all. He sat in the car, engine off, breathing deeply, but that ate up more time and made him later, increasing his panic.

He got out, taking a gym bag with him, full of supplies, and ran up the three steps to the front door, painted navy and dusted with tree pollen. Big house, old and rambling, wisteria climbing the walls. Driving up to the entrance, he’d noticed shrubbery in need of hacking back, and brambles winding their way across what had once been formal beds. He had an empty window box and a Christmas cactus that’d failed to flower for the last two years, so he cast no stones.

The door opened. A middle-aged bloke, bulky in a green cable-knit sweater and—oh God, kill him now—tatty brown cords, frowned at him from behind thick glasses. Simon couldn’t focus on his face. He glanced, looked away, realized he was staring past the man into the house, rude in anyone’s etiquette book, and fixed his gaze on the man’s chin. The guy hadn’t shaved. 

“You’re late.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Circumstances beyond my control.”

He eased his weight from one foot to the other. Was this over before it began or was an invitation to enter imminent? 

“Well, you’d better come in so we can get this over and done with.”

Huh. It wasn’t a visit to the dentist, for God’s sake. Frowning, Simon stepped over the threshold, skidded on a floor mat, and grabbed the bannister to halt his progression. Oak, satin-smooth to the touch. Probably polished by generations of maids over the centuries. Except the house wasn’t that old. Late Victorian at most.

“Watch yourself. I keep meaning to put some of that stuff under it, you know, that sticky matting…” The man’s voice trailed off. He paused, then turned and extended his hand. “Sorry. Manners. Now you’re here, I’ll introduce myself. Didn’t want to give you my name on the phone, though I suppose you could’ve worked it out from the address. You could find my shoe size online, though why anyone would want to, I don’t know.”

“I could, but I didn’t.” On familiar ground now, Simon smiled, his nerves settling. “We’re big on personal privacy in the club. Want to share your real name? Go ahead. You’re safe. But it’s not necessary.”

That got him a nod. “Fair enough. It’s Malcom Rockwell. Call me Malcom.”

“Hi, Malcom. I’m Simon. You can call me ‘Sir.’”

That always got a reaction. He watched for it, used it to guide him. A shiver of longing or shock, an indrawn breath or nervous laugh… They told a story. Malcom twitched his nose like a rabbit, scratched the back of his neck, and took a step backward. 

Shy. Nervous. He could work with that. 

Projecting assurance, he asked, “Why don’t we sit and go through some of the basics?”

“Uh, I thought you’d just…you know. Do it.”

“No.” Patience wasn’t his strong suit, but in situations like this, with men like this, Simon didn’t mind how long it took to get to the finish line. His agitation faded with every passing second, replaced by a settled calm. Later, he’d relive the stress of being late and the encounter with the youths, but now his thoughts and emotions had one focus.

Malcom.

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not how this works.” Simon nodded at the room behind Malcom. The light was on and he saw a wide, deep couch and heard the crackle of a fire. Perfect. “In there, please.”

With a puzzled, doubtful glance, Malcom led the way into a long, wide room, the walls lined with books, a large desk dominating the far end. Dark wood, weighed a ton, with a green leather insert on the top. Mmm. Simon appreciated the possibilities of the desk, but tucked away his fantasy of bending Malcom over it for a headmaster/student reversal role-play. Not what he was here for and Malcom was light years away from ready for that.

He pointed at the couch. “Sit there, please.”

Malcom widened his eyes. Blue eyes, as unremarkable as the messy brown hair in need of a trim. “You’re telling me where to sit in my own home?”

“If you have a problem with me giving you orders, I’m glad you told me, but that _is_ a problem.”

Malcom folded his arms over his chest. “Look, mate—”

“Sir.”

An impatient flap of his hand showed Simon what Malcom thought of the correction. “Yes, yes. But the point is, you’re here to give my arse a walloping. We don’t need all the mumbo-jumbo like safewords and calling you fancy names. This is a one-time deal, strictly business.”

“Excuse me?” Simon gaped at him. “Business? What the hell do you mean? I made it clear on the phone. No money, no sex. I’m here to spank you. End of story. But before that happens we talk. And you _will_ use a safeword and you _will_ address me with respect. I know you’re new to the scene and this is an experiment for you, but trust me, you’ll get more out of it if you’re in the proper mindset.”

“Good God, you’re bossy!”

“Well, yeah. It kind of comes with the territory.”

“You don’t look the type.” Malcom studied him. “I opened the door expecting some hulk in leather from head to foot and a whip in his hand.”

Simon owned one pair of leather trousers. One. They made his legs sweat and bagged on the arse. And as his mum told him fondly, before filling his bowl with a large helping of treacle pudding and custard, if he turned sideways, he’d disappear. He was skinny, medium-height, with sleek blond hair and brown eyes. They were the milkman’s according to his gran, but she had to be joking. Milk deliveries had disappeared long before he was born. He’d checked.

“It’s attitude that counts, not appearance.” Without being asked, he took a seat in a wing-backed armchair, setting his gym bag beside it. “If you’re having difficulty remembering where I wanted you, it was on the couch.”

Malcom ran his hands through his hair, leaving it disheveled. Thick and soft, it’d pay for a brushing. Simon had loved brushing Jaz’s, taming the wind tangles. Jaz on his knees, Simon in a chair, the slow drag of the brush, then Jaz turning, eyes imploring, mouth soft, waiting to discover if he’d be ordered to open his mouth for Simon’s cock or present his arse for more brush strokes, still gentle, dozens of them, until the reddened skin was ready—

“Oh Jesus. Fine. We’ll play it your way, but I can’t waste much time on this. I’ve got work to do.”

Jolted out of achingly sweet memories, Simon’s reply was sharper than he’d intended. “Waste your time? What about mine? I drove all the way out here on my day off and you’re acting like…” He broke off, breathed in and started over. “Let’s clear the air. You contacted the club because you wanted a spanking. I’m here to give you that experience. If you like it, you’re more than welcome to come to the next meeting, make friends, maybe hook up with someone and take it further. But if you’ve changed your mind, that’s fine.”

“Go to a meeting? Good God, no!” Malcom passed his hand over his face, looking harried. “I wasn’t… I might’ve given you the wrong idea on the phone.”

Caution rose. They were careful, always, but even so. “In what way? If you’re a reporter, or some religious nut--”

“I’m a writer.” Malcom jerked his thumb at the nearest bookcase. “Books. And no, I’m not planning an expose. You get your jollies paddling some guy’s arse, that’s your business. And his. Live and let live. Not my cup of tea, but so what?”

“You’re not a sub looking for a Dom.” It wasn’t a question. “You’re not a masochist, either, by the sound of it.”

Malcom scratched his nose. “Submissive? Me? No. And I can’t see me getting off on being hurt, but I’ve never tried. That’s why I need you.”

“Not getting it.” Simon glanced at the door. “And unless you spell it out, I’m leaving.”

“Without doing what you came for?”

“Trust me, the mood I’m in, you don’t want to go over my knee.”

“People tell me I’m annoying, but I can never work out what I’ve done.” Malcom shook his head impatiently. “Never mind. If I’ve pissed you off, sorry. If I’ve wasted your time, sorry again. So if you won’t do it, can you put me in touch with someone who will? I know you said money isn’t involved, but I’ll be able to claim it, so I’m willing to shell out, say fifty quid?”

“No fucking way! That’s prostitution and the club’s not about that.”

‘No sex involved,” Malcom pointed out. “I don’t want to get off. Doubt I could under the circumstances.”

“It doesn’t matter. And what do you mean, it’s tax-deductible? You can’t claim for it!”

“It’s research. For my next book.” Malcom stood, walked over to the bookcase and took out a paperback. His hand obscuring the author’s name. “This is me.”

Simon squinted at the cover. Pink. Lots of pink. Swirly writing, a bird in a dress falling off her shoulders, and a hunk in breeches bending over her with a constipated expression and ridiculously over-developed muscles. “You write romances. My mum loves them. Gets through three a week.”

“Under another name, yeah. They’re not selling. My agent wants me to ramp up the sex. Kink’s in. I sent her the manuscript and she said it was wooden, unconvincing, and tepid.” Malcom slammed the book back in place. “I was voted Queen of Smut three years running at the Swash and Buckles convention. Online poll of hottest deflowering ever and who won it? Letitia and Dashing Duke Nick from _Swords of Fiery Passion_ , that’s who. Tepid? _Tepid_? Tell that to every reader I’ve left with wet knickers!”

Malcom’s voice was an enraged bellow. Simon winced at both the volume and the image left in his head of his mum— No. Not going there. “Uh, okay. That sucks. Still not seeing how you getting spanked will help.”

“Write what you know.” Malcom shrugged, calming down fast. “Never done anything kinky. Oh, I looked stuff up online—that’s where I found you lot—and sent my download limit through the roof watching porn, but it’s not the same. Can’t see me hitting a woman even if she wants me to, but if I know what she’ll feel like, it’ll help with chapter three.” He eyed Simon. “Don’t suppose you’d let me whack you a couple of times? Get a feel for it from both ends, so to speak? In chapter seven, there’s a caning from the villain’s point of view.”

“I wouldn’t let you near me with a cane or anything else.” Simon stood. “The club’s not for people like you. You say you found us online so you should know that. It was founded to give kink-curious people a way to get what they want without pressure or commitment. A safe place. A haven. I’ve spanked people for the first time and it’s… You have no fucking idea what it’s like for them, for me. It’s beautiful. Cathartic. And you want it to juice up your book? You’re a writer! Make shit up.”

“I tried. I told you what happened. I can write about sex. I’ve had sex.”

“With women?” Why had that question popped out? Malcom had asked for a man, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was gay.

“Once or twice.” Malcom shrugged. “Didn’t do much for me. So I tried men. That worked better. I don’t date much though. Can’t remember the last time I had sex.” He pursed his lips. “No, I lie. It was my birthday, last October. We went out for a meal, had sex at his place, and he waited until midnight to dump me because he said doing it on my actual birthday seemed cruel. I was too drunk to drive, so I slept on his couch.”

Ouch. “I can see why you’d want to forget that.”

“I didn’t forget it. Didn’t want to tell you. Then I thought why not? I was prepared to show you my bare bum. Why not share my humiliation too?”

“Hey.” Simon stepped forward, driven by profound sympathy, and gave Malcom a quick hug. “He’s a dickhead and it’s his loss.”

“I named the pickpocket in my next book after him,” Malcom confided. “He gets caught and transported, but he dies on the ship. After getting scurvy so his teeth fall out. They throw him overboard for the sharks.”

Whoa. Simon stepped back quickly. “Uh, good. Well, not for him. Or your karma, but whatever made you feel better.” He cleared his throat. “Do you do that a lot? Grudge naming, I mean?”

“I write historical novels, so it depends on how traditional their parents were. Hard to convince readers that a duke and duchess would name their son and heir Wayne or Zenon.”

“Zenon? Really?”

Malcom nodded. “It’s hot right now.”

Turning up to spank a stranger would qualify as weird in most people’s eyes, but this truly was a surreal conversation. Out of his depth, Simon glanced at the door again. “I should go.”

“Don’t. Please.” Malcom didn’t block his way or grab his arm, but something in his voice held Simon in place, a gruff appeal. “Why won’t you do it? You’d get a kick out of it and it’d help me. Does it matter that it’s for research not pleasure on my part?”

“It does. I can’t explain why, but it does.”

“Spanking’s not a religion. You can’t say I’m profaning the ritual.”

“I wouldn’t enjoy it.” Simon raised his hands in response to Malcom’s eye roll. “It’s important to me. Being a Dom is part of who I am. I spank someone—or paddle them, or whip—never mind. There’s a connection. Even when it’s a home visit like this and I never see them again. I wouldn’t enjoy it knowing you weren’t getting anything out of it.”

“Would’ve thought as a sadist, it’d make it better for you.”

There was so much wrong with that statement, he didn’t know where to begin. “It wouldn’t. It would fucking ruin it, okay? I don’t— You make it sound— _Shit._ ” 

He turned away, face working, throat closed up. He’d come across people like Malcom before, full of misconceptions and ignorance. The ones who laughed at him and called him a perv, the ones who told him he was disgusting, a monster. 

And he’d held onto his belief they were wrong, secure in the knowledge he’d never hurt anyone in the true sense of the word. Until Jaz shattered his world and walked out of his life. This session was his first since that night and he’d been nervous, but exhilarated, determined to make it good for Malcom and, with luck, himself.

Fuck. Fuck the session, fuck Malcom, fuck his naïve hope he could get back what he’d lost. He wasn’t a Dom. He was a loser. A clumsy, insensitive—

“Are you _crying_?”

The horror in Malcom’s voice was enough to make a cat laugh as his mum would say. He shook his head and turned to face a man who’d gone from being his temporary responsibility to an irritant. “I’ll see myself out.”

Malcom ignored him. “You look like shit. Let me make you a cup of tea or something. Or a beer? I’ve got beer. I know you’re driving, but one won’t hurt.” 

“I don’t drink when I’m—” He paused. He never drank alcohol before or during a session, but this wasn’t one.

“Tea, it is then. How do you take it?”

Surrendering to the gruff kindness in Malcom’s eyes, he sighed. “Thanks. Milk, no sugar.”

They drank it in the kitchen, an old-fashioned space looking out onto a back garden Simon would’ve loved to explore. An orchard, a rose garden, a pond…All with a Sleeping Beauty quality, wild and secretive. High walls kept it private and there wasn’t an umbrella in sight.

“I feel bad about spinning you a tale.” Malcom turned his mug in his large hands, staring into it as if it were a crystal ball. “Truth is, after what Sal—she’s my agent—said, I was gutted. Desperate. If my dad knew I made a living writing what he called tishy-tosh romances, he’d turn in his grave, but they’re good. I do my research and I put my heart into them. I shouldn’t have tried to go all X-rated. It’s not me. Rampant willies and cunts on every other line—Jesus, I’m blushing using the word! You could’ve turned my backside all shades of the rainbow and I’d never be able to write the steamy stuff that sells these days.”

“It’s okay.” Moved by Malcom’s distress, Simon reached across the table and patted his hand. “And I’m sorry I had a mini-meltdown. Bad break-up and this would’ve been my way of getting back on the horse. Doesn’t matter. I was ready to do it and that’s what counts. The club meets on Friday and I’ll go along and see if anyone’s up for a session.”

“How does it work?” Malcom took a healthy swig of tea. “Is it one of those dungeon places?”

Simon snorted. “You’ve got to be kidding me. No. There’s fifteen, twenty of us, and we meet up at the village hall in Crossleigh. They’ve got a basement, no windows, and we make sure the doors are locked upstairs. Like I said, no sex, absolutely none. People give talks, or demonstrate something like safe bondage techniques, then we, well…”

“Get down to the fun stuff?”

“Mmm.” Odd to be uncomfortable, but Malcom wasn’t one of them and Simon wasn’t inclined to go into details. The basement space had room dividers stacked against one wall. Moved strategically, they provided alcoves for those who preferred the illusion of privacy, and it was amazing what fit inside an innocent-looking gym bag.

No sex, but the faint musty smell of the basement made his cock stiffen, and when the meeting ended, it wasn’t uncommon for a couple to go home together and take things further. Not uncommon at all, but that was on their own time. And of course, some people went there as couples in the first place.

It worked. And he missed it. 

“I showed you mine.” Malcom nudged Simon’s foot under the farmhouse table. “What happened with lover-boy? Couldn’t hack the kink?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Him.”

“Yeah, you do.” Malcom scratched his chin. “Damn. Forgot to shave. Gave my bum a good scrub, though. Checked it for zits too.”

Simon choked over a mouthful of tea. “That was, um, considerate of you.”

“Shame to waste a bath.”

“Huh?”

Malcom tapped the table. “You might not want to tell me what happened but I’m not daft. You fucked things up in the dungeon and he swanned off. You thought giving a newbie six of the best would be nice and easy and you’d get over the jitters. Good idea. Now, I’ve changed my mind about why I want it, but I got you out here and—”

“No.”

Malcom pursed his lips. “You’re a hard man to please.”

“Like being bossy, that comes with the territory.”

“You say something like that and I get a feel for what you’d be like.” Malcom screwed up his face. “It’s a bit of a turn-on, if I’m honest. Are you turning me kinky? Is that your super-power?”

Simon gave a huff of laughter. “Funny guy. No, you’re sex-deprived and I’m gorgeous.”

“I go for younger than me. Course, who isn’t?”

“How old are you? Thirty-six? No? Forty?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“I’m twenty-five next month.” Simon did a sum in his head. Definitely not old enough to be his dad. And Malcom didn’t feel dad-like. An awkward, lonely teddy bear kind of a man. Not his type, but it didn’t matter. This wasn’t a date, this wasn’t a session. This was…a cup of tea with a new friend. And even that was pushing it.

Odd how relaxed he felt, though. No need to hide what he was, but no need to come on strong or impress either.

“How old was the one who got away?”

“My age. We were at school together.”

“So you lost a mate as well as a, uh, submissive?”

“He was my boyfriend, not my sub.” And that was the problem. “He liked the fun stuff. Playing at it. But it was never real for him. A game he wasn’t always in the mood for. I could’ve worked around that. I’m not looking for 24/7 and I’m not hardcore. But he had enough sub in him to want to please me and I was stupid enough to believe him when he asked me to cane him.”

“You wanted to do it, so you were easy to fool.”

“Yeah.” Simon forced himself to meet Malcom’s gaze. If he confessed, he’d do it with his head held high. “I loved the idea. We agreed on four strokes. He had his safeword. He took the first and I was—God, it felt good! The sound he made, the way the mark rose… And he said my name, but it wasn’t his safeword and he didn’t ask me to stop, so I did it again, and again and then he screamed, but I was already…” He pushed back from the table and stumbled over to the sink, the original version of the on trend ones every designer was currently crazy for, deep, white, apron-fronted. Luckily, it was also empty so when he spat out a mouthful of thin, sour bile, it was easy to wash it away under a spluttering tap. He rinsed his mouth and dried it using his sleeve. 

“Sorry.”

“Better out than in.” Malcom put his hand on Simon’s shoulder and turned him, pulling him into a hug. “There. You gave me one when you thought I needed it. Favor returned.”

Simon breathed in the scent of man and wool. Broad chest. Strong arms. And a familiar prod against his thigh.

He shrugged free. “Hey! What the hell?”

Malcom shrugged unrepentantly. “Like you said. It’s been a while. Don’t suppose you’re interested in some of that casual sex us gays go in for at the drop of a hat? I mean, if you’re not spanking me, sex is on the table?”

“I was having a moment!”

“You got it off your chest and now you feel better. I’d need to hear his side of it, but from the sounds of it, he didn’t do what he was supposed to and neither did you. Was he badly hurt? Needed stitches?”

“God, no! Bruised and blood blisters, but…”

“But angry and scared, and you took all the guilt and groveled which wasn’t what he wanted from you, because it made you look weak and he got off on your strength.” Malcom sighed. “God, it’s so bloody easy sorting out other people’s love lives. Why can’t I do the same for mine?”

“Too close to it.” Simon muttered the words, busy processing Malcom’s snap judgment. Its accuracy rang true, but was he so desperate to shed his guilt that he’d believe anyone who told him he wasn’t a monster? 

“No, I’m a hard man to live with.” Malcom gestured at the kitchen. “And they all want to do the place up. Why? I like it. It’s not fancy, but there’s room to breathe and it’s solid. My great-granddad built it and he was a man who got his money’s worth from all accounts.”

“I like it.” It was a world away from the barren modernity of his flat or the painfully neat but dated comfort of his parents’ home. Old enough to have dignity, good enough quality to have aged well, this place needed work, but only to smooth out a few rough edges. The tap didn’t need to spray water in every direction, for one thing. “You’re a year away from letting it slide away though. A few hours a week on some basic maintenance wouldn’t hurt, and maybe a cleaning service, give it a good bottoming, attic to cellar, but solid…yeah. Good word.”

The sun broke free of the clouds, the increased light struggling through windows in need of a wash. Malcom looked around, frowning as if Simon’s bluntness had opened his eyes to the crumbs on the counters and the dingy tiles on the floor. “I won’t say you’re wrong. Want to see the garden?”

“Why not?”

It was paradise for a child. Simon had grown up running wild in the woods near the town, making dens in the tangled caves of rhododendron bushes, swinging out over rocky streams on a rope doing his best Tarzan impression, and exploring the vast mountains of debris from the potbanks in search of a whole cup or saucer to take home to his mother. Most of the places he’d played were gone now, built over, smoothed into blandness or neglected to the point where they were best avoided. Malcom’s garden called out to the boy inside him and Malcom…

He watched Malcom stride away down a flagged path, moss cushioning each crack in the stone. Interesting guy. Full of contradictions. Not posh, like his house, but clever. A sub? No. But there’d been something about that repeated offering of his arse for a spanking that had Simon curious.

Research for a book? Really? Or Malcom’s way of justifying a request he was too shy to make openly? Someone could be a masochist and not a submissive. Enjoy the sweet sting of pain without feeling the need to kneel when they said thank you.

He caught up with Malcom in a summerhouse, a graceful octagonal with a pointed roof, and wide, arched spaces between pillars twisted like barley sugar. Inside, narrow wooden benches ran around the space, offering seating, and in the center was a wrought-iron table.

“The seats lift up.” Malcom demonstrated. “They used to have cushions inside for when it was nice. It’s the focal point of the garden.” He pointed. “This side looked out on the roses, and that one back to the house. And this…” His voice faltered. “Pretty overgrown now. Nothing to see.”

“I like what I’m looking at in here.” Simon pulled Malcom in, offering comfort again, but of a different sort.

The kiss held its awkward moments; he’d surprised Malcom and their noses bumped, followed by a too-eager response after that, making Simon long for a tactful way to draw back, wipe his mouth dry, and start over.

In the end, he did exactly that, quelling Malcom’s apology with a headshake. “From the top.”

Better. Much better. Malcom’s strength and height didn’t overwhelm Simon. He conquered them, controlling the kiss with assurance, instinct taking over. The sweetness of Malcom’s response touched him and he gave himself up to the simple pleasure of kissing and being kissed. Arousal followed, but in the warmth of the sunshine, birdsong providing background music and the faint, evocative perfume of bluebells brought to him on the breeze, it lacked urgency.

All the time in the world…

“That all I get or are you up for more?”

The brusque question jarred, but Simon saw the wariness in Malcom’s eyes, watched barriers going up. Malcom expected rejection and Simon hated that.

“What did you have in mind?”

“You’re the Dom. Aren’t you supposed to tell me what to do?”

“I’m not your Dom. And do you want me to?” 

The doubt in his voice had Malcom rubbing his nose hard enough to redden it. “Dunno. Maybe? Oh, probably not. I’d feel a right plonker, to be honest. But I don’t mind getting on my knees for the usual reason, as long as you don’t take it the wrong way.”

He was damned if he let Malcom get away with that. “Let me put it this way. You get sex or a spanking. Pick one.”

Color rose in Malcom’s face, his breath quickening. “Why would you think I’d want a spanking? Thought we’d put that idea to bed.”

“Did we?”

“Yeah. I conned you into this visit, we moved on, and—”

“I didn’t move on, if by that you mean you’re forgiven.”

Again, that stuttered, hitched breath. “So you want me bent over, arse up, out of revenge?”

“No. It’s your choice. Always has been. And I’m wondering when you’ll admit you made it the second I asked.” He stared directly at the swell of Malcom’s dick, the shape vague under the hideous corduroy trousers, but promising. “For a man with a hard-on, who’s not into the kinky shit, why hesitate? Grab the sex. It’s been a long dry spell and I’m well fit, me. Hotter than anyone you could hope to pull, so what’s your problem?”

“Jesus, you rate yourself, don’t you? Skinny short-arse, that’s what you are. I’ve had better.”

“Doubt it.” Lust sizzled through him, a violent, heady rush of feeling. “And you still haven’t said what you want.”

Malcom nodded. “Fine. Both. Why not? Slap me, then fuck me. You like it that way and I don’t mind trying it.”

“No sex if I spank you.” No compromise possible on that. “I’m here officially as a club member. No sex.”

“Ever? I’m off-limits, full stop, end of story?” 

“No. But not today. Not allowed. You want a spanking, you can have it. You don’t need to beg.” Though he got off on that, always did. “You get to find out if you like it, no strings, no fallout.”

“And if I do?”

“Why don’t we cross that bridge when we come to it?”

“And if I don’t, you get in your car, drive away, and that’s it? Because I wouldn’t mind seeing you again, if you’re interested. Until someone better comes along for either of us, anyway.”

It seemed clear Malcom didn’t expect to be the one moving to greener woods and pastures new.

The answer should’ve been simple. Simon couldn’t do vanilla relationships. They left part of him empty. He wasn’t deeply into the lifestyle, but he was far enough in to be sure of that.

“Not necessarily.”

Shit. Unfair. Raising false hopes. Shit, shit, _shit_ —

“First time you’ve lied to me.” Malcom shrugged. “Fair enough. I’ll take the spanking. But you’re not hot enough that I’ll lie about enjoying it to get a date.”

“I’d know if you did.”

“I suppose you would at that.” Malcom glanced around. “Here’s as good a place as any. Do you need something? A stick? A paddle?”

He had a bag of toys inside the house, but why risk breaking the mood by going to fetch it? Simon raised his hand. “Got this. It’s all I need.”

Malcom kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks. Pushed down cords and underpants together and stood, cock poking out under the hem of his sweater. “This enough? Bit nippy to go the whole way.”

Thick cock, heavy balls, a cloud of dark hair surrounding them, and long, muscular legs, winter-pale. Simon swallowed back an appreciative sound and nodded. “Turn around. Hands on the railing, legs apart.”

He could’ve put Malcom over his knee, but he wanted the visual, the freedom to move around. Wanted to make Malcom wait, exposed, anticipating. The sadist in him rose, avidity tempered by the protectiveness a sub brought out in him.

And maybe Malcom would never kneel, staring up at him adoringly, anxious to please, but in this moment, he was Simon’s. 

He pushed Malcom’s sweater up, exposing part of his back. Nice view. Malcom’s arse was firm, pale skin dusted with a freckle or two, but when Simon palmed a cheek it had a pleasant cushiony quality. A backside capable of soaking up plenty of punishment and he yearned to test that theory.

“Jesus, this feels weird,” Malcom muttered.

“Legs wider.” Simon gave the order to test Malcom’s headspace. Would he protest or hesitate? No. Without a word, Malcom edged his feet apart a few inches and took a deep breath.

Running his hand over Malcom’s spine and over his arse, waking the skin, Simon watched every shiver and clench. Malcom was too wound up. Time to relax him. “You need a safeword. Don’t overthink it. It’s not a lifetime commitment. Something to make it stop.”

Malcom turned his head as if searching for inspiration. “Earwig.”

“What?”

“There’s one right there, about to crawl over my hand.”

“Oh.” Simon picked up a dried leaf from the summerhouse floor and redirected the earwig onto it before placing the leaf out of the way. “Earwig, it is. And if you need to use it…”

Malcom twisted around, reading Simon’s hesitation like large-print. “I like you. I’m fonder of my arse. If it gets too much, you’ll know the minute I do, mate, okay?”

“Thanks.” 

Malcom nodded, resumed his position, and shook himself like a wet dog. “My back’s going to seize up soon. Can we get on with it?”

“Yeah,” Simon said softly. “We can.”

His first slap was hesitant, but hell, it was a hand, nothing more. He couldn’t do much damage with it and Malcom was free to stand, step aside. He couldn’t hurt him like this.

Two. Three. Leaving some color behind now.

“I can take it harder than that.”

Simon opened his mouth to tell Malcom to shut up, but closed it again. This wasn’t a session. This was Malcom’s show. He dealt out a hard, stinging slap, something loosening inside him, freeing him.

“Yeah. That’s more like it.” Malcom hissed out a breath. “I felt that—uhn.”

Simon clenched his hand around the sting, flexing his fingers. He’d felt it too. With his growing arousal a background, not his focus, he set about delivering a spanking hard enough to leave Malcom in no doubt he’d received one without pushing it into territory Malcom wasn’t ready to explore.

Skin flushed hotly, mottled in shades of red, the print of his fingers lost in the scarlet. Jesus, it felt fucking incredible to do this again. He drank in the harsh rasp of Malcom’s breathing, the tumble of words dying to inarticulate grunts and muttered curses, gloried in the heat transferred from his hand to Malcom’s arse and back again.

Because Malcom had stopped talking, he began, murmured words of praise and encouragement, whipping his desire higher.

Then Malcom spoke. “No more. Please. God, it _hurts_ —”

He hesitated, hand raised. Not a safeword. Nothing he hadn’t heard from subs before. A plea never meant to be taken seriously because it was a darkly delicious thrill to ask and have the punishment continue, ending only when the Dom decided. He’d heard subs talk about it at the club meetings, eyes dreamy and understood where they were coming from. Forced to take more, to submit to their Dom’s will, but with the security net of their safeword in place when it truly went beyond their limits.

And Malcom was nowhere near his limits physically, Simon knew that, but emotionally, maybe…

But he hadn’t safeworded.

“You can take more than this and you will because I want you to.” His voice was steady and he made sure the slap matched the last for strength and struck a tender area. Nothing from Malcom but a shuddering sigh and yeah, there, a shift in position with Malcom offering his arse up for more, the tiniest movement, but he saw it.

With renewed determination, standing on solid ground, Simon ended the spanking with a flurry of sharp blows, all noise and sting, gradually tapering off the intensity until the last one was more of a pat.

He placed his left hand, cool, unused, against the singing heat of Malcom’s arse and Malcom exhaled, a tremor running through him.

Simon let there be silence between them. He loved the aftermath and the chance to comfort. It went hand in hand with the pain for him, balancing them out. If he could’ve snapped his fingers and taken away the discomfort, he wouldn’t do it because Malcom had earned that pain, worked hard for it, but he wanted to share the high.

He drew Malcom upright, sat on the bench, then pulled Malcom down to sit half on his knee, half off.

Malcom rested his head on Simon’s shoulder, hiding his face. It was flushed, but dry. No tears. Malcom took a handful of Simon’s shirt, mauling it, rubbing his forehead across Simon’s shoulder.

Simon stroked Malcom’s hair and patted his back. “You did so well. Loved spanking you. Don’t talk if you don’t want to, but let me know if you need anything.”

“Yeah.” Malcom turned. “Please?” He pressed his mouth to Simon’s in a kiss as fervent as any Simon had received.

Impossible not to respond. He ached with need, his cock rigid, and it was a kiss, only a kiss, and God, Malcom’s mouth was sweet…

Then Malcom grabbed his right hand. “Touch me. God, get me off.”

Simon curled his fingers instinctively around the thick thrust of Malcom’s erection, echoing Malcom’s moan, but when Malcom arched up, rutting against his palm he released him. “No. We can’t. I told you. The rules—”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I won’t tell anyone!” Malcom’s eyes behind his glasses glittered with lust and frustration. “Won’t take much. God, you can’t leave me like this!”

Simon stood, legs weak, heart pounding fast. “I can’t. I—”

“Got your jollies and your mojo back, and the hell with me?” Malcom snorted and reached for a sock. “Fine. Fuck off then. Go on. Get lost, pretty boy.”

“I need to make sure you’re okay.”

“Part of the service? Don’t need it.” Malcom glanced down meaningfully. “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself. Don’t want an audience for it.”

“Listen, I’m sorry, I really am, but—”

Malcom stood. Half-naked and in socks, he should’ve looked ridiculous, but he didn’t. “I’ve asked you to leave. Don’t make me ask again.”

Cast out of Eden, Simon made his way through the wilderness, tears he blinked away blinding him, through the house at a run, and out to his car. He’d reached the end of the drive, gravel spurting under his tires, when he realized he’d left his bag behind. Shit. There was a lot of expensive kit in there and practicality aside, it would be the last thing Malcom wanted to see. Maybe he had time to sneak back in and grab it.

He scrubbed his face dry, took a deep breath, and reversed slowly, branches scraping the side of the car when he veered off to the left.

On his way to the front door, he glanced through the window into the room where he’d left his bag. Malcom, fully dressed now, was in there, sitting on the couch, head down, shoulders slumped. Crying by the look and sound of it, the harsh, ugly crying of a man who saved tears for special occasions. The spanking hadn’t broken him, but Simon sticking to the rules had done the job nicely.

The front door had locked behind him. Without bothering to knock, Simon ran around the side of the house and in through the back door, retracing his steps, desperation and guilt spurring him on. He wasn’t fit to be a fucking Dom. He’d stop, become celibate, never spank again…

He skidded on another fucking mat in the hall, and fell, jarring his knee painfully, but he got to his feet and limped onward. 

Malcom glanced up when Simon entered. He swiped ineffectually at his wet face and took a deep, shuddering breath before speaking. “Thought I told you to fuck off.”

The empty dreariness in his voice was harder to take than anger.

“I got as far as the road when I remembered I’d forgotten something.”

Malcom took a hanky out of his sleeve and used it to dry his face and blow his nose, luckily in that order. “Your bag of tricks? Yeah, it’s over there.”

Simon didn’t spare them a glance. “They don’t matter. The rules do, though. They protect you and me. After a spanking you’re vulnerable, and some people assume we’re running an escort agency and they’re entitled to a fuck.”

Malcom frowned. Scowled, really. “That wasn’t¬ what I—” 

“I know. But they’re not meant to leave someone feeling hurt and rejected.”

“Not the first time. Won’t be the last.” Malcom flapped his hand dismissively. “Okay, you’ve done your duty. I’m not planning on topping myself. Getting drunk, maybe, but I might skip that. Why add a hangover to being miserable? Now tick the box on your report that says you checked up on me and be on your merry way.”

“Jesus, Malcom, this isn’t me here as someone from the club, this is me here because I want to be. And if there was paperwork involved, you wouldn’t see me for dust.” He went to his knees beside Malcom. His bruised knee throbbed, but he held back a wince. “Let me take care of you. Finish what we started. We can talk it over, and I’ve got some lotion for later if you want to take some of the heat away.”

“Sounds great. And then you drive away and leave me knowing what I want and with no way to get it again? Thanks, but no thanks.”

Simon snorted and took a seat beside Malcom. Being on his knees didn’t feel right. “Come to the next club meeting and there’ll be a queue around the room for a chance at your arse. It’s fucking gorgeous. Go and look at it now, then again tomorrow when the bruises rise. Sexy as hell.”

Malcom looked pleased, but skeptical. “Yeah? You must be hard-up for arses. And would you be in the queue?”

“First in line unless you want to try someone else. Mandy’s got a way of making anyone sob for mercy. You’d like her.”

“Can’t see it working for me with a woman. No offence meant.”

“None taken.”

Gaze wandering to a point an inch left of Simon’s head, Malcom asked, “So you’re interested in more, in me, but not today? Or am I reading too much into you coming back?”

“No, I mean, yeah, but I screwed up. Again. Handled it the worst way possible.”

“Or I pushed too hard and wouldn’t listen to what you said.” Malcom wiggled his hand. “Six of one, half a dozen of the other. The main thing is, you gave me a right good seeing to and didn’t hold back. Did you enjoy it then?”

Simon ran his fingertips over his palm, still hot and tender. “Definitely. You talk too much, but I’d train that out of—” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Getting ahead of myself.”

“Only way you’ll get me to shut up is with a gag, and good luck there, mate.”

 _Oh yeah?_ “Every time you’re specific about something you won’t do, I add it to the list of things I’m going to do.”

“Bastard.” The glimmer of amusement told Simon he was on the right track when it came to interpreting Malcom’s bluster. “Or should that be ‘Sir Bastard’?”

“Why don’t you work that one out for yourself? Be prepared to deal with the consequences if you get the wrong answer.”

Malcom drew in a sharp breath. “You’re good at that.”

“At what?”

“Flipping a switch. Blarting your eyes out one minute, all strict the next. Reminds me of my headmaster. Not that he was ever misty-eyed when he got out the cane.”

Fantasies between adults was one thing but the thought of a young Malcom in shorts and socks facing a caning twisted Simon’s gut like a Wright’s pie followed by one too many pints of Pedigree. “You were caned? Really? Thought they’d done away with corporal punishment years ago.”

“Not when you’re paying to get educated. They called a halt to it when I was in the fourth year, but it was too late for my poor backside by then.”

“Did you like it?” Simon settled himself into the couch. He loved talking about kink with someone as into as he was. “Or did it put you off? It can go both ways.”

Malcom scratched his nose, clearly not prepared to answer, which in a way told Simon what the answer was. “Is this the sort of stuff you talk about at your club?”

“Sometimes. If people want to share. No one has to.”

“Can we skip the club and maybe…” Malcom shrugged. “Do this on our own time? No rules, no restrictions, you hammering my arse after you spank it, not sugaring off leaving me high and dry?”

God, that appealed. It really did. Malcom was so bloody straightforward. No risk of misunderstandings, all the drama brisk as a breeze and as soon over. He couldn’t picture Malcom sulking or vindictive. But he wasn’t letting this Sleeping Beauty sink back into slumber. Malcom needed to get out more and Simon’s social life was alive and well. Hard not to be in a town where the pubs outnumbered the shops. “You’d like the club.”

“I would hate the club.”

He gave Malcom his sternest look. “I will get you to the club if I have to drag you there in chains.”

“Promises, promises.” Malcom squared his shoulders. “All this drama. Like a bloody soap opera. How about another cup of tea?”

Simon had the oddest feeling Malcom was taking care of _him,_ when it should be the other way around, but he nodded. “Got any biscuits?”

“Chocolate bourbons all right?”

“Lovely.”

“If you’re not in a rush, stay for tea and watch Stoke against Arsenal. They’re on the telly for once.” Malcom narrowed his eyes. “Unless you support Port Vale?”

His second cousin on his mum’s side had played for Vale, but Simon’s loyalties were in the right place. “As if.” 

And later, when Malcom endured the agony of an incorrectly disallowed goal that led to a draw instead of a well-deserved win for the Potters, Simon knew how to comfort him.

Sex was still out of the question, but another spanking wasn’t.

 

Slang terms, some British, some specific to the Potteries dialect.

Plonker = idiot  
Conner = can’t you  
Bottoming a room = thorough cleaning  
Blarting = crying  
Sugar off = leave


End file.
